


Matthew 7:7

by indiavolowetrust



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Angst and Romance, Blood and Violence, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust
Summary: "Ask, and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."Satan tutors a particularly curious, chatty student.
Relationships: Main Character & Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This MC is based on various female saints. Prior to falling into the Devildom, this MC lived in Catholic rural Spain -- hence the name Maria Cruz (MC). This fic explores the possibility of demons having their own language outside of the MC's native language, as well as Satan's inner wrathful nature.

My head pulses with the reverberation of the rain, the battering against the windowpane a thunderous, steady march. While I can’t quite fathom how the Devildom has changes in weather -- outside of temperature changes, that is -- it is difficult to do anything but take the anomaly in stride. In a realm crowded with demons, angels, and beings dangerously akin to monsters, it would be only a headache to dwell on it. A waste of time.

But aside from that, it is comforting. A vague resemblance to a typical autumnal rain. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can almost imagine that I am in one of Sister Marta’s classes again: bored, tapping my pen against the wooden desk, and on the verge of sleep, the sound lulling me into a placid state. Sister Marta would drone on and on about the syntax and grammar of Latin, citing various points in scripture. My pen would scrawl doodles and notes alike, creating looping whorls on my paper. And the occasional running line for each time I nodded off, of course. The storm would rage on and on, drawing my eyes to the rivulets of droplets on the window, and my patience and attention would slowly slip into nothingness.

I regret doing so each and every day that I spend in the Devildom.

I take another glance at the two books strewn on the desk, attempting to focus again. A compilation of notes sits beneath my hand, the two tomes in Latin and Enoch flipped open to what should be the same page. My fingers cramp from writing so much, protesting the constant workload, but I wholly ignore the sensation. If I had paid more attention in Latin class, I would be able to translate Enoch better. If I hadn’t drifted off so much and ignored Sister Marta, I wouldn’t have such a noticeable accent when speaking to the demons of the Devildom. If I hadn’t spent so much time daydreaming about the end of the school day, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself upon my first arrival in the Devildom. My skin still bristles at the memory: my complete bewilderment, combined with the Lord Diavolo’s lack of foresight to provide me with a translator, had only led to disaster.

_ A complete idiot, _ some part of me says, chiding me.  _ You looked like a complete idiot, spouting off nonsensical phrases in Latin.  _

Then again, it wasn’t as if I had really believed in demons or angels before. How was I supposed to know that the language of the demons was only a derivative of Latin?

Another clap of thunder nearly shakes the House of Lamentation’s foundation. I read the hands of the grandfather clock: it is only half past midnight. Plenty of time to finish the last five pages of translations and vocabulary practice. I will myself to understand the texts before me, gripping the pen tightly in my hands. I force my eyes to focus. If I am to survive the remainder of my exchange year at RAD, I would have to do a much better job at hiding my humanity -- starting with disguising my Spanish accent. But the words only blur in my vision again, the call of sleep urging my eyelids to close, and I feel myself sway unsteadily in the chair. The stress and fatigue from work hits me all at once. The lull of the storm sings to me, exacerbating my exhaustion. My pen begins to drift off the paper. My head nods forward.

“Maria?”

I blink, immediately forcing myself back to consciousness again. My eyes scan the library, drawing itself over rows of bookshelves and dark mahogany tables. The dim lamp on the desk is dim and flickering, casting long shadows across the room.

And Satan stands in the doorway, looking just as surprised as I am.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, hand still on the doorknob.

I glance down at my notes. I’ve drifted far enough into sleep that I’ve drawn a crooked line over the preexisting words, I realize with embarrassment. I quickly hide the ruined sheet. “Just studying,” I respond. “It’s -- it’s late, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

Satan arches a brow. “Well, aren’t we curious?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean --”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he dismisses, throwing a smile my way. It does nothing to disarm me, nor does it ease my sense of embarrassment. He reaches one of the bookshelves in the corner of the room with long strides and pulls a book off the shelf, evidently acquainted with the contents and layout of the library. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would read something to relax. I left one of my favorite novels here.”

I nod, trying to hide my discomfort. “I see.”

I look down on my notes again, reading over the newly written content, but I make sure to keep a wary watch over Satan out of the corner of my eye. While traveling to the human world with Satan, Lucifer, and Mammon had helped in forming the bonds between Satan and Lucifer, I cannot say the same for myself. Only a few weeks have passed since Satan’s outburst. Since his threats of, verbatim, slicing off my nose and ears, ripping off my arms and legs, and feeding me to the lower-level demons. While it is easy for someone like Lucifer to simply overlook the transgression, being a demon, it is much more difficult for a human like me to forget the terrifying experience. Satan had clearly meant to make good on his word. If Lucifer hadn’t stepped in, I would likely be nothing more than a pile of torn flesh and bone.

“You’ve gotten pretty proficient,” Satan’s voice says over my shoulder.

I nearly startle out of my chair, turning towards the source of the voice. Satan stands to the side of the desk, leaning as he regards my notes. His gaze draws itself over my notes and the tomes with interest. I shrink back instinctively from his presence, still caught in surprise. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. The wrathful demon simply nods, as if satisfied by my work.

“So this is how you’ve become fluent so quickly,” Satan remarks, green eyes lighting up. “Tell me, are all humans like this?”

I shake my head. “Not really. It’s -- I just figured it would be a good idea if I learned more Enoch,” I explain hastily, my hands already working to close the tomes and collect my notes. “Didn’t want a repeat of the first few weeks of school.”

“Well, it was almost incomprehensible when you first started.”

My cheeks flush. “I --”

“And you’ve improved significantly,” he says. “You should be proud of yourself, human.”

There it is again: that brilliant, faux smile. I merely nod in acknowledgment and utter a small  _ thank you _ as I gather the rest of my things, closing each tome with finality. Satan steps back as I stand from my seat, bearing various notes, notebooks, and a pen in my hands, and I do my best to offer him a smile in return. A goodbye gesture of sorts. If I am to have my choice in the situation, I will not spend another moment in Satan’s presence. Not alone, anyway. It is late, as it is. He probably wouldn’t be too offended if I made the excuse of exhaustion. I begin to make my way past him, the excuse falling from my lips.

Satan catches me by the arm. I flinch as I regard him, both the surprise and fear registering on my features before I can stop myself -- and Satan lets go immediately, the facade slipping almost imperceptibly. He draws his hand back to his side, the action creating distance between us once more. I stare awkwardly at him for a moment.

“I can tutor you, if you would like,” Satan finally says, breaking the silence. “Tomorrow, same place.”

_ Say no. Just outright refuse,  _ my conscience advises, attempting to build my resolve.  _ You can tutor yourself just as well as that demon can. Just say no and he’ll leave it alone. _

* * *

The tip of the pen emerges from its casing with a gentle  _ click _ , Satan’s fingers wrapped securely around its base. His eyes scour my written translation for a moment, peering over the frames of his reading glasses. He scratches corrections onto the paper after a moment, then pushes the notebook towards me. His pen taps on the various scrawling.

Satan pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, “This word is pretty close, but there are too many connotations for it,” he explains. He writes out various characters in Enoch, pronouncing the syllables of each word. “It’s a bit more formal, but it’ll probably get your point across a little more clearly. Your professors will probably appreciate that.”

I take a look over Satan’s writings, comparing them to the text. As promised -- or mildly coerced, depending on how I regard the circumstances -- Satan had met me in a small library of the House of Lamentation, at least several high-grade novels and other books piled high before him. And, as expected, Satan is nothing but strict in his teachings. Each wrong stroke of an Enochian character leads to a quick, ruthless correction, Satan immediately scratching out the mistakes. Each wrong pronunciation of a word in Enoch incites a  _ tsk _ from him, his typical gentlemanly countenance making way for his true nature. While it is somewhat reassuring that the demon no longer feels a need to hide his nature from me -- therefore making his outbursts more predictable if they do occur -- I still can’t quite shake the discomfort. The contrast between his outward and inward nature is unsettling.

I sigh inwardly, dispelling the thought. If I had really wanted to refuse, I should have done so right then and there. Because I was given a choice, wasn’t I? An implied choice. I could have said no. I could have refused. But then a memory had suddenly occurred to me, and I found myself completely stripped of my will.

_ Don’t you dare trifle with me, human, _ Satan’s voice echoes, the memory still fresh and palpable.  _ If you dare say that you won’t make a pact with me again, you’ll pay for it with your --  _

“What’s wrong?” asks Satan, casting a glance at the space underneath my pen. Empty. “Is there something you don’t understand?”

I blink, then quickly shake my head. “No, I was -- I was just thinking about something.”

“Like what?”

My mind searches for an excuse, eyes inadvertently scrutinizing his appearance. While one would normally wear something more comfortable and casual for bed, Satan is dressed in an almost formal sweater and sweatpants that could be taken for slacks, his hair still perfectly mussed and styled from the school day. Nothing about him is undone. The meticulously thought-out details make me feel nearly out of place with my borrowed, oversized sweater, pyjama pants, and pineapple-like bun of curls sitting on top of my head. A slovenly effort when compared to Satan.

My eyes land on the reading glasses perched on top of his nose.

“Do you need those?” I ask, distracting myself from my own thoughts. “I always imagined demons were all-powerful. Did you have to go to a doctor in the human world to find your prescription?”

Satan looks surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected me to comment. Or notice, depending on how low his expectations of humans are. “Well, no, but I thought they seemed appropriate.”

“You thought I would learn faster if you looked the part?”

“You like to ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” he counters, clearing his throat. “ _ Curiosity killed the cat _ \-- isn’t that what you humans always say?”

“ _ Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, _ ” I recite, correcting him. I lean in closer to peer at his glasses, my curiosity overtaking my unease around the demon for a moment. The glass is thin, free of any curve in the glass. Moreover, they bear a plain yet distinctive design -- akin to what a gumshoe in a noir novel would wear. My mind flashes back to the book he had pulled off the shelf the other night. “They aren’t real.”

Satan gives me a withering look. “If you knew that, then why did you ask?”

“You’re wearing them because you want to look like Detective Vic Stone from  _ Masking the Shadow _ ,” I observe. Satan’s impassive facade falls for a moment, his flustered state suddenly apparent, and a sense of victory nearly quirks my lips into a smile. A strange sense of victory over the wrathful, figuratively masked demon -- but a victory nonetheless. “You can correct me if I’m wrong.”

Satan brings a hand to his face, partially obscuring the flush over his features. “You try my patience too much. If you have any other questions, I would suggest you ask them now.”

“Just one.”

“I’ll make sure to bind your mouth next time.”

“How much would you like to be paid per session?” I ask, ignoring his words. “I work part-time, so there isn’t really a --”

He cuts me off. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I echo, confused. “If this is because you think me incapable of compensating you, you are sorely mistaken.”

He sighs, obscuring his face as he focuses his attention back on the Enochian tome. Adjusts his glasses again. “Why wouldn’t I?” Satan says matter-of-factly, as if I should be aware of the answer. “That would be like refusing to take home a kitten in the rain. There’s no reason why I wouldn’t help you.”

“But --”

My words die in my throat as Satan places his hand on my head, patting my pineapple-like bun of curls as if I were truly a pet. That fake, polite smile graces his features once more. “You ask too many questions,” he says, his tone halfway to a threat. “Work.”


	2. Chapter 2

Each study session passes by that way: Satan correcting even the most marginal of mistakes in my pronunciation and inflection, books upon books carried into the library, and my apparently endless questions testing his patience. At the very least, he never makes good on any of his promises. Other than his continuous refusal for payment -- something I don’t quite understand -- he meets me religiously each and every Friday evening with a pile of material, primed to take on the role of tutor. Composed, prepared, and ultimately affable, the minor slip in his countenance a sole occurrence. Not that I would purposefully try to incite his rage or irritation again. If I were to have a choice in the matter, I would never witness Satan’s wrath ever again.

And yet here I am, sleepy and huddled in my rattiest sweatshirt while Satan lectures the importance of characters and runes at me.

“Does that make any sense?” Satan says, pushing up his faux glasses. Despite his initial fluster at my observation, he wears the accessory to each and every one of our study sessions. “Or would you like me to explain again?”

I draw one arm closer to myself, willing my body to conjure warmth in the cold air of the House of Lamentation. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say, looking over the notes of Satan’s lesson plan. I experimentally scrawl a few Enochian characters onto my sheet of notebook paper, doing my best to copy Satan’s precise pen strokes, and stare intently at the product. It doesn’t look quite right. “How did you --”

Satan overtakes my hand with his larger one, intending to use the pen while it is still within my fingers -- and I jerk away, the abrupt nature of the action taking me off guard. I bring my hand to my breast out of instinct, a strange flush spreads across my cheeks. Cold fingers cradled in my sleeve-covered one. My heartbeat pulses just that much quicker, in spite of a reason for it, and it is a moment before I compose myself fully.

When I look up, I find that Satan is staring at me with an odd expression.

I realize the awkwardness of the situation. “Oh -- um, sorry,” I stammer, doing my best to dispel my embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Satan only blinks after a moment. And then that odd expression is gone, replaced with something much more fitting of his usual countenance. “It’s alright. You were cold, weren’t you?”

_ Just agree with it. He’s giving you a way out. _

“Yeah, I was,” I agree tentatively, plastering what I hope is a reassuring smile on my face. “I should’ve worn something warmer.”

The lesson ends an hour later with Satan’s cardigan draped over my shoulders, the dim lamp nearly burning out its light bulb, and yawns plaguing my questions. Despite -- or rather, because of -- Satan’s strict guidance, I can feel my grasp of the Enochian language slowly but surely improving. My mouth fits easier around the purring, reverberating language of the demons, the syllables slipping off my tongue as easily as Spanish. My intonation has become more natural, my voice falling and rising appropriately with each word and phrase. More importantly, I no longer have that half-second pause between thinking and speaking, my thoughts more accustomed to translating directly from Enochian to Spanish and back again.

Satan begins to gather the various materials from today’s lesson, clearing the desk in the library of the scattered books, papers, and notebooks. When I nearly drop one or two of them, he simply adds the ones I had intended to carry into his pile. And then he is guiding my nearly unconscious body through the winding hallways of the House of Lamentation, leaving his material in a neat pile in his room, and all but drags me through the door of my own room. The unorganized notebooks land with a heavy  _ thump _ on my desk.

At his behest, I watch from the comfort of my bed as he attempts to organize the notebooks into where he thinks they should go, placing and replacing the materials in different places. I can’t help but find it odd. Satan, being the wrathful, irate demon he is, couldn’t possibly be doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Nor could he be performing some act of charity. I watch awkwardly as Satan moves objects around to his own liking, changes his mind, and moves them again. The desk and the part of the room he occupies ultimately ends up resembling his own, with books, novellas, and notes strewn everywhere.

_ He’s planning something, _ I think, the exhaustion clouding my thoughts.  _ He’s planning to get me alone and eat me. Or he’s waiting for the opportunity to tear me apart when no one will notice. Or he’s taking his time just to torture me, just to make me suffer before he rips my limbs from my body. _

But if he had wanted to do that, wouldn’t I already be torn apart and devoured by now?

“If being up so late tires you, we can always move our tutoring sessions back an hour.” Satan regards one of the books on my shelves with interest, taking it down. He flips through its pages. “They won’t be of any use if you’re too tired to comprehend anything.”

I stifle another yawn, my body slowly migrating into my sheets. My bed accepts me as one of its own, taking me into its embrace, and I can feel my mind slowly drifting away.

“I can’t,” I explain, words muffled only marginally by the blanket. “Hell’s Kitchen won’t take me for anything but the swing shift.”

Satan is quiet for a moment as he continues to regard the book. His fingers pause, the sound of flipping pages no longer present, and it takes me a moment to realize that the wrathful demon is giving me a sidelong glance. Studying me. I meet his gaze through the haze of my half-consciousness, regarding him with bleary, sleep-tinged eyes. He closes the book with a snap.

“Then we’ll meet at the same time next week.”


	3. Chapter 3

I ignore the ache in my back as I bus what must be my thirtieth table of the day, scrubbing the mahogany to a dark, lustrous shine. The influx of patrons has begun to die down over the course of the night, despite it being only nine p.m. on a Friday, but the ones that have already arrived have wined and dined far into the night. My body aches from the strain of running back and forth, carrying and balancing loads of dishes and beer glasses, and leaning over counters and tables. The ache in my fingers nearly rivals that from Satan’s lessons. Yet is a welcome pain: the nature of the job occupies me both physically and mentally, acting as a barrier to my homesickness, and the strain in almost akin to being on my family’s farm again. My eyes draw themselves to the shining mahogany beneath my hands, staring into the wood.

My reflection stares back at me through the darkness of the surface, and I flinch.

_ When was the last time I had a full night’s sleep? _

Dark, nearly hollow eyes, noticeable shadows beneath each. My black curls are lopsided, even within the confines of its high ponytail, and my olive skin has begun to regress into odd pallor. My work uniform has been put together without care, the necktie crooked and my shirt vaguely rumpled. No wonder I had only been put on bussing duty today. My thoughts drift to Satan: that devilishly false grin spreading across his features, perfectly coiffed hair, and immaculate attention to his appearance. He and I put the same hours into reading and studying -- even if mine mostly concerns learning Enoch -- and I have yet to see him come undone. It is maddening, almost. Infuriating.

I think of last week’s study session once more, to that odd slip in his expression. Fingers held to my breast in surprise, the cold fingers cradled within those of the other. And Satan had pulled his hand away immediately, hadn’t he? He had. For once, his visage bore no sign of his usual facade. No rage, no cockiness, no sardonic, ill-tempered humor. No sign of that false, sunny mask.

If I didn’t know any better, I would say he almost looked hurt.

“Maria!” my fellow waitress’ voice rings out, catching my attention. I watch as she approaches me, a clipboard in her hands. “I’ve been looking all over you! Where have you been?”

“Oh, I --”

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” she says, cutting me off. “The incubus at table twelve requested for you to serve him tonight. Said he wouldn’t have anyone else but the curly-haired demoness.”

* * *

I stand awkwardly in front of one of the more private seating areas of Hell’s Kitchen, holding a notepad and pen to my chest. While Hell’s Kitchen is a relatively casual bar and restaurant, its fair reputation and cuisine tends to attract demons of all social standing. Some would say it is the commitment to local ingredients over those imported from the human world or Celestial Realm. Some would say it is the loyalty to serving only comfort foods of a demonic origin, the menu populated by fried bats, stewed scorpions, and hellfire sauces. Either case, it is not uncommon for the socialites of demon society to frequent the establishment.

I know that the demon before me has come for neither of these reasons.

“It is wonderful to see you again, my dear,” croons the incubus, manicured finger playing with the tip of his wine glass. A bottle of corked Demonus sits beside the glass. His eyes twinkle with amusement, as if my very presence is reason enough to waste a few thousand on wine and uneaten dishes. At the very least, he is without his entourage this time. “Shall we?”

I clear my throat, making a point to stand some distance away from the incubus. “Of course, sir,” I say, forcing myself to sound as cheery as possible. “Would you like to hear our specials? We also have an extensive Demonus menu, if you would like to hear that as well.”

The incubus waves his hand in dismissal. “Just the usual, dear. Unless you would feel so inclined to join me.”

“We aren’t allowed to fool around on the job.” I reach over the table and grab the closed menu, avoiding his gaze. “We’ll have it ready for you in a --”

The sudden sensation of the incubus’ fingers around my wrist startles me, nearly making me jump -- and he nearly pulls me on top of him, the other arm wrapping around my waist. It is only by my resistance that I end up with one knee on the seat of the booth instead of wholly in his lap. I try to pull my arm away, to tear myself out of his grip, but it only seems to encourage the incubus further. His fingers tighten around my wrist. A grin spreads on the incubus’ face as he forces me to look into his eyes, the sclera darkening around the pink pupils.

My breath hitches in my throat.

My mind screams at me to yell for help. To run. To shove him off, despite the clear difference in strength. To do anything but simply stare into this incubus’ gaze, bound by both fear and duty.

This incubus, while not quite within the highest ranks of the Devildom, is still a demon of some importance. Certainly of a higher status than the owner of Hell’s Kitchen. While I had initially shirked his advances, given my complete ignorance as to his status at that point in time, it would be incredibly unwise to do so now. Not when I am so isolated from the rest of the restaurant. To cause a scene now would be a death wish.

The demon’s pupils seem to dissipate. To anyone else, I imagine, they would be hypnotic. Enrapturing. An overwhelming, false lust would overtake me, shattering my will into nothingness, and the incubus would hold my heart in his hands. He could ask me to take me into his mouth, and I would do it. He could order me to present myself on the bench, and I would happily spread my legs. I could be on the verge of a shuddering, mind-breaking orgasm, and a simple command would prevent me from my release. Under any normal circumstances, my body and mind would be completely at his mercy. Docile, compliant, and completely submissive.

Yet I feel nothing.

The door to the private suite is closed. Locked. Hell’s Kitchen already boasts a private, dark atmosphere as it stands -- an effect that is only exacerbated by the circumstances of the situation. It is certainly an effect that does nothing but encourage the gutsy incubus. He breathes heady promises into my ear, each word laced with a lustful compulsion. His manicured hands trace patterns against the surface of my pantyhose, lifting the skirt of my work uniform. The purr of the incubus’ voice reverberates through my body. Then the incubus begins to truly draw me into his lap, lifting me as if I were weightless, and --

Then there is that memory of Satan, his long, slender fingers wrapping around mine. A pianist’s hands. Despite the vestiges of my fear, the momentary contact, and to whom those hands belonged, they were undeniably. wonderfully warm. 

I shove myself away from the incubus, stumbling unceremoniously back onto the floor. A mixture of both surprise and irritation crosses his features, the darkness retreating from his sclera, and his pink pupils return to their initial state. My cheeks burn with an inexplicable heat. A moment of silence passes between the both of us. I can’t find the words to apologize.

I all but throw myself out of the room, flinging open the doors, and make my way back into the kitchen to give the cook her orders.


	4. Chapter 4

I pull the sleeve of my school uniform over the beginnings of a bruise on my wrist, doing my best to ignore the throbbing pain. I should just be grateful that the incubus had stopped short of shattering it. A small mercy. I should be grateful that he hadn’t decided to devour me right then and there, even if he had believed me to be a demon. It’s a little later than I had intended to leave -- half past ten -- but I can’t imagine Satan retiring to bed. Not anytime soon, anyway, with his odd sleep pattern. Being a few minutes late wouldn’t make that much of a difference. And so I push open the employee exit of Hell’s Kitchen, slinging my school bag over my shoulder. 

It’s raining.

I wait a few moments in the doorway, listening for the sound of thunder. Watching for lightning. The tips of my smart school shoes dampen with the onslaught of the storm just beyond the door. I check my bag for an umbrella.

* * *

Despite my efforts not to step in puddles or other flooded areas, it is nearly impossible for me not to become soaked in the storm. The freezing rain feels like needles upon my skin, piercing me through and through, and it is only moments before I am soaked to the bone. Rivulets of water run down my curls. The white button-up shirt beneath my blazer becomes nearly transparent with rainwater, my thick blazer enveloped with a sudden heaviness. My pantyhose becomes soaked when I stumble into a deceptively deep puddle.

The torrent of rain only worsens. I take a less frequented shortcut on the way back to the House of Lamentation. I walk freely in the open, passing under street lamps and the illumination of closing stores. 

I feel my D.D.D. buzz in the confines of the school bag, demanding my attention, but I don’t dare open my bag just yet. While working at Hell’s Kitchen makes a fair enough salary, I doubt I have the funds to immediately replace a broken D.D.D.. It buzzes again, increasing in both volume and implied urgency, and I sigh. Lucifer is probably preparing to lecture me for returning to the House of Lamentation so late. Unattended, no less. My eyes scan the streets for a suitable awning or overhang to check my D.D.D..

A sound catches my attention.

I turn around, instinctively searching for the source of the noise. The streets are empty. There is nothing in the darkness but flickering street lamps, the shadows of store signs, the endless winding paths and turns -- and yet I can’t help but feel a sense of unease. Dread. Almost as if I were being watched.

_ Stop being paranoid, _ I tell myself.  _ You’re thinking too much. _

But I quicken my pace anyway. The fear begins to wrap its icy fingers around my heart, despite my efforts to crush it, and I hold my school bag closer to my body. Draw myself into the confines of my soaked blazer, as if the act would make me any less conspicuous.

There’s that sound again. Closer. I hastily turn a corner at the end of the street. It disappears beneath the torrent of rain. I no longer bother to avoid the puddles and rivulets on the cobblestone, ignoring the unpleasant sensation of water seeping into my shoes.

The sound is some short distance behind me now. At the end of the street, likely, if not some mere feet away. I recognize the sound, despite the uproar of the storm. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.

I run.

I dash through the streets of the Devildom, my heart pounding in my ears. I don’t care where my body takes me, so long as it is moving. I end up ducking into winding alleys, pathways between shops, and spaces underneath shadowed overhangs. I strictly avoid the light of the street lamps as I sprint, willing myself to blend into the shadows. Praying that my pursuer is only some horrible part of my imagination, a simple hallucination made by a tired mind, or, at worst, some curious demonic adolescent playing a prank -- but I know it is none of these things. My legs ache from the sudden exertion, threatening to fall apart beneath me, but the adrenaline forces my body to keep pushing itself forward.

My pursuer matches me at every turn. Despite my attempts to take difficult paths, the sound of their footsteps is nearly in step with my own. Never closer, never further. And yet there is never a lull in their pace. My lungs feel as if they are on the verge of collapsing. I draw in quick, shallow breaths, the panic flooding my system.

The world shifts. A sharp pain shoots through my body as it cracks against a brick wall, and darkness overtakes me.

A moment passes.

An odd liquid runs down the side of my face when I come to, its warmth quickly intermingling with the cold rain. The image of the street before me focuses and unfocuses in my vision. I push myself off the cobblestone, faltering as I do so, and try to force myself to focus. Try to pull away the haze that has shrouded my thoughts. The sound of the rain is more present than ever, dulling my senses. I tentatively place a hand to the side of my cheekbone, to the source of the pain. A dark crimson coats my fingers when I pull it away. 

Blood.

A pair of dark, expensive boots appears at the edge of my vision. They approach me with slow, deliberate steps, as if doing their best not to startle me. As if they expect me to run again in my state. I look to my knee and find the dark pantyhose completely torn through, the blood freely flowing out of the wound beneath.

“So it’s true,” says a familiar voice, dragging me back full consciousness. “Even a lesser demon would have been able to sense that. To think there was a human in my midst all along -- and in plain sight, no less. I truly am impressed at your deception, human.”

My eyes widen as I stare at the smiling incubus before me, his expression nothing short of affable. A black umbrella keeps the rain off his form, as if he were doing nothing but enjoying a nightly stroll. His manicured fingers wrap delicately around the handle. My gaze shifts past him, taking in my now ruined schoolbag. My textbooks, notebooks, and D.D.D. are strewn just to the side of the incubus.

My D.D.D. buzzes.

“I thought you were a strange little thing at first,” the incubus muses, stepping closer. “I thought it was odd, really, that you had no idea who I was. I truly believed you were some ignorant demoness from the third circle of the Devildom, that you were some stupid little creature -- but I looked into it. Out of curiosity, you could say.”

I do my best to muster up a glare as the incubus stops in front of me, tipping my chin up with the end of his boot. His expression is unchanging. Then he crouches down in front of me, as if intending to mock my pathetic state. A sadistic amusement dances in his eyes.

I grit my teeth. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh, but how can I? It would be cruel to leave such a delicacy unattended. And I did give you a chance. I gave you so many chances, my dear, and you rejected every last one of them. You, a human, rejected me. Why was that?” The incubus croons, reaching a hand out to cradle my cheek. His expression hardens, and he simply drops the umbrella to the side. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter now. It’s time you learned what happens when you trifle with a demon.”

His sclera darkens once more, pink pupils bleeding into the blackness. Horns rupture from his forehead, curling delicately around his features, and a pair of leathery wings burst from his back. They tear through his jacket, distracting him for a moment -- but a moment is all I need.

I shove my elbow into his face. The violent impact stuns him, if only temporarily, and I take the opportunity to dive for my D.D.D.. The screen lights up, despite being completely waterlogged. I take off running, desperately trying to pull up my contact list. It does so. I don’t have enough time to read the name off -- nor the clarity, given the heavy rain -- and I blindly press the icon on my phone. I speak a silent prayer to whichever merciful deity allowed my D.D.D. to survive.

And then I watch as my D.D.D. is torn from my hands, thrown onto the cobblestone, and shattered beneath a boot. I can’t react fast enough.

The incubus’ hands wrap around my throat, nearly crushing it. I struggle for air as he lifts me from the ground, clawing at his hands. My efforts prove to be futile. It is only a few moments before the edges of my vision begin to darken once more. My windpipe bruises within the confines of his grip. I continue to kick at the demon, even attempting to gouge and dig into the flesh of his forearm, but the lack of oxygen weakens my movements. A few more seconds, and I find myself barely able to even register the sensation of raindrops on my skin. I can only stare glass-eyed at the blackened, weeping sky. Small, pathetic whines leave my lips.

The incubus seethes, drawing my face close to his. “I should devour you right here and now,” the incubus snarls, tightening his grip around my windpipe. I wheeze. “But no, I won’t give you that luxury. I’ll make sure you suffer every waking moment, human. I’ll strip the flesh from your bones. I’ll brand your flesh until it bleeds. I’ll cut off your fingers one by one and feed them to the dogs! For your transgressions, I’ll --”

His hands suddenly release me. I collapse into a puddle of rainwater, gasping for air. Chest heaving. Painful, sputtering coughs leave my mouth as I struggle to breathe again, my vision still plagued by spots of gray, and I just barely discern the form of the incubus before me.

The sight is enough to make me forget about the pain.

Satan stands over the incubus, his visage impassive. The draconic horns and scaly, segmented tail of his demonic form protrude from his body. The incubus’ head lies beneath one of Satan’s oxfords. The incubus thrashes wildly underneath the sole of Satan’s shoe, attempting to shove off the demon with his bare hands, but Satan only presses harder. I flinch as I hear the sickening crunch of shattered bones, the night only saturated with the sound of rainfall -- and then it is joined by the screams of the incubus. Obscenities, threats, and curses fall out of his mouth in the course of one breath. Promises to rip off the offending demon’s face, to tear his limbs off one by one, to let the hellhounds have their way with him. Promises to burn him alive, bring him back from the dead, and subject him to thousands of years of torture.

Satan only watches on in apparent boredom, his expression set -- but I know better. His green eyes flash with rage. The tips of his horns seem to nearly ignite, his tail twitching in displeasure.

“What are you doing?” the incubus demands. He thrusts a finger of his unbroken hand towards me. “How stupid can you be? She’s a --”

“I’m well aware of what she is.” Another shattering. Satan smiles almost imperceptibly. “This one is mine.”

* * *

Satan wraps his cardigan around me when he is finished. It is an effort made futile by the downpour, but it is an effort no less. I gaze silently at the splatters of blood on his face and hands as he wraps the garment tighter around me, shivering in the cold, and he averts his eyes. His hands linger over my shoulders for a moment, as if he were afraid to touch me. As if he were afraid of breaking me.

“We should go.”


	5. Chapter 5

The inside of Satan’s room is just as I remember it: dark, filled to the top with books, novellas, and research guides, and almost completely devoid of space. Filled shelves nearly line every wall, his desk nothing more than storage for a number of unorganized documents. And a small reading lamp, of course. It burns dimly at the edge of his desk, wedged between a pamphlet and a mug filled with pens. Satan’s false reading glasses sit beside it. A clock hung haphazardly on a wall indicates the time to be a quarter to midnight. A clap of thunder reverberates just outside the walls of the House of Lamentation, and I do my best to suppress a shiver.

Satan had said nothing as he took my half-conscious, shell-shocked body into the House of Lamentation and neither had I -- so it had been a silent agreement. Not that I had much reason to protest. My throat still aches with the strength of the incubus’ grip, the lacerations at my cheekbone and knee shooting sharp sparks of pain up my body. I can only imagine the countless internal bruises.

I draw myself deeper within my frigid, soaked clothing. Hold the borrowed towel close to my body. Satan’s expansive bed creaks ominously as I shift, despite my diminutive frame, and I can only hope that his sheets are staying mostly dry underneath the towel. Nothing had been salvageable. Aside from the school bag, Satan had been unable to recover anything more than a water-damaged textbook and a number of illegible texts on the street. My D.D.D. was out of the question.

The incubus had stopped screaming long before he was done. A reflection of what the incubus had promised to do unto him. Satan had snapped each of the incubus’ fingers one by one, starting with the one the demon had used to gesture towards me. The incubus had managed to wriggle out from under Satan’s grip at one point, attempting to flee, and Satan had simply shattered each of the incubus’ legs. A measure of necessity. And then the incubus no longer possessed them, the offending limbs torn off and thrown elsewhere, and the blood had bloomed in rainwater. But Satan had kept him alive. Satan had kept the incubus conscious for as long as possible. I had only watched in silence as Satan’s form became splattered with crimson, his immaculate appearance for once tarnished.

I did nothing to stop his rampage. I should have screamed for him to stop, should have barred him from tearing the demon asunder, should have been horrified at the gruesome scene before me -- and yet I could not bring myself to do so. I could not bring myself to act under pretense. And when Satan was finished, regarding me with blood and viscera on his hands, I was not afraid.

The door swings open, and I nearly startle out of my place on Satan’s bed. Satan shuffles quickly but quietly into the room, his arms full with what appears to be rolls of bandages, tins of ointment, and bottles of antibacterial spray, then closes the door. The items replace a pile of research papers on his desk.

“I know you were adamant about holding off until tomorrow about reporting the incident to Lucifer and Diavolo, but it would be best if we treated your injuries now. We can have someone more qualified take a look at you in the morning.” Satan takes the antibacterial spray and ointment in his hands. “Where should we start?”

I open my mouth to speak -- but my voice is only a quiet, painful croak, the act straining my bruised windpipe. _ You don’t have to do this, _ I want to protest.  _ You’ve already done so much. You shouldn’t feel obligated. _

Given my current state and the resolve in Satan’s gaze, however, I doubt that I’ll be able to convince him otherwise.

Satan takes my chin in his fingers, angling my head, and I wince as the antibacterial spray hits the scraped flesh of my cheekbone. Thankfully, the burning abates after a moment. He works quickly but efficiently, applying the ointment, gauze, and bandages to the area. His expression hardens somewhat at the sight of bruised skin at my neck and collar bone, his impassivity slipping, but he fails to address the matter. His fingers are a mere brush against my skin when he applies the medicine, gentle and fleeting. His movements are measured. Steady. He pauses for a moment each time before treating an area, waiting for my silent but sure consent. The tension is nearly palpable. I nearly catch his gaze a few times as he works, regarding his brilliant green eyes with my dark, shadowed ones -- but he deftly avoids my gaze.

“You have pacts with all of us, don’t you?” he finally asks, breaking the silence. “Why didn’t you just activate one and summon one of us to your side? You were lucky I went out looking for you.”

I force my voice out of my damaged throat. “I’m not … Solomon.”

“Yes, but you could have easily forced one of us to walk you back home after your shift. Even Mammon knows how dangerous the Devildom is for humans,” Satan chastises, placing the finishing touches on my damaged throat. A quick press secures the gauze in place. “I’m sure he would be glad to accompany you.”

I shake my head. “Your will … is not mine.”

I hold his gaze for what feels like the first time in hours, unwavering. Perhaps it is considered acceptable for a demon like him -- expected, even -- but I cannot truly imagine myself doing so. To hold another's will in the palm of my hand and crush it would simply be an unthinkable act. And I had narrowly escaped death plenty of times before, besides. If I were to be devoured or otherwise slaughtered for being human, so be it. I would not needlessly endanger someone else. I am already a burden, as is. How could I be so selfish? Why would I be willing to be even more of a burden?

I try to say as much to the wrathful demon.

My throat nearly collapses underneath the strain of my efforts, my lips fumbling awkwardly around the Enochian words. The thoughts that do emerge from my mouth are nearly incomprehensible, my Spanish accent hitting me full force, and so I resort to accompanying my audible words with gestures. Satan regards me wordlessly, his expression unmoving and indiscernible. I feel a pang of embarrassment. Had he not understood?

_ You idiot, _ I chide myself, mentally slapping myself in the face.  _ Of course he doesn’t understand. How would anyone be able to tell what --  _

He laughs.

It is a throaty, restrained sound. A smile erupts over his features, and he brings a hand over his mouth, as if to prevent himself from laughing any longer at my expense. I can’t help but stare in bewilderment. It is easily one of the most genuine expressions I have ever seen on Satan. Then he is placing a hand atop of my wet, coiled curls, ruffling my hair as if I were a pet. I feel a tinge of heat begin to rise to my cheeks.

“You really do say the weirdest things,” he says, teasing me. I open and close my mouth, a protest on the tip of my tongue, and his smile only widens. “The only good thing about this is that you can’t ask many questions as you usually do.”

I frown in disapproval, but I make no effort to address the topic further. Satans screws the top onto the ointment, intending to put away the first aid supplies -- and then thinks better of it. He gives me an expectant look. His eyes linger over the towel he had lent me, his hands remaining on the container of medicine. The question is obvious.

“Only … one,” I rasp, shifting myself slightly out of the confines of the towel. I do my best to peel off my pantyhose, wincing at the sensation of the cloth pulling away from the torn skin, and then I gesture at the wound. The laceration is widespread but not deep, thankfully. “On my knee.”

Satan nods. “Just a second, then.”

* * *

My wet blazer hangs over Satan’s desk chair, the piles of books pushed far enough away from the garment. Satan had been thorough in his efforts to treat my wounds as much as possible, and an innumerable number of bandages of strips of gauze cover my body. Bandages and ointment cover the scrapes on my wrist, the laceration at my cheekbone, the wound on my knee, and the purple, budding bruising at my throat. Satan looks at me with satisfaction when he deems the task complete, his gaze drawing over his work. Then he gathers the medical supplies strewn on his bed and desk, taking them in his arms, and begins to head towards the door.

_ Wait, please. _

“Wait,” I rasp, the word coming out a little more forcefully than intended. He gives me a sidelong glance, only a few steps away from the doorway. “Let me repay you.”

Satan cracks a smile, teasing me. “If this is about tutoring again, I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.”

_ That’s -- _

The warmth is brief. Fleeting. Satan’s form stands before mine before I can blink, even with the medical supplies in his arms, and his lips draw themselves away from the curls plastered on my forehead. I register the sensation of the chaste kiss on my skin after the act, my senses not quite recovered from the ordeal, and Satan smiles down at me. That polite, perfectly amiable smile. He steps away to create distance between us, ever the gentleman, and gathers his bearings. His back begins to turn to me once more.

I grab his arm before he can do so, forcing him to face me with an unexpected strength. There is only a split moment for Satan’s features to register his surprise, his eyes widening -- and then my cold lips press to his, drinking in his heat. His lips are just as I had imagined: soft, warm, and telling of a kindness hidden beneath his exterior. It only lasts the span of a moment. I release my hold on his arm when I pull away, retreating back into my prior position.

A heavy flush has spread itself over Satan, his expression indecipherable. He stands stock-still, the medical supplies still in his arms, and only blinks at me in the aftermath, seemingly unsure how to react. Silence falls between us. Lightning strikes somewhere in the distance, illuminating both of our forms in the near-darkness.

Oh.

I cover my face in embarrassment, pressing a hand to the side of my bandaged cheek. “I -- I’m sorry, I --”

He steals my words away in the next breath, kissing me with a fervor I hadn’t expected. The medical supplies clatter audibly onto the floor, the bandages rolling away. He doesn’t care. One of his knees props up onto the side of the bed, allowing him to position himself over me, and both of his hands move to cradle the sides of my face. The kiss is desperate, shameless -- and yet it is still undeniably, irrevocably gentle. Demure, somehow. Satan runs his tongue across my bottom lip, asking for permission, and I meet his tongue with mine.

He kisses me over and over, as if he were afraid I would never allow him to do so again. As if he were trying to make it perfect every time. He braces his hands on my shoulders when he finally draws away from the act, his countenance completely undone. Satan runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze.

“You’re cold.” Satan glances at my wet uniform. “If I take you back to your room, you can change into something dry.”

“I can borrow your clothes,” I counter.

“You’re injured. If we continue, I might hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I just dragged you in from the rain,” he says. “You aren’t clean.”

My throat crackles, but I force my voice to speak the words. “You aren’t clean either. We can take a bath together.”

Satan sighs. I can see his resolve slipping. “You’re afraid of me.”

“Am I?” I ask. I slowly move myself off the side of the bed, forcing my body to stand. The white blouse and dark skirt of my uniform fall to the floor, feather-light even in their current state. I take a step closer, my head just at chest-height on the wrathful demon, and stare up at him through the darkness. “Am I, really?”


	6. Chapter 6

I bite into my palm, willing my voice to be quiet. My curls plaster against both my forehead and the nape of my neck, the moisture gathering in the strands from the steam. My other hand grips the edge of the tub, anchoring me in place, and a shudder nearly forces my body to slip from my position. Thankfully, Satan’s hands shoot up just in time to prevent me from falling off the rim of the tub.

“You should have told me you were inexperienced,” he says. His tongue circles lazy around my clit, only darting out every so often to flick the sensitive flesh. The hand that had wrapped itself around the side of the tub now knots itself in his wet, blond locks. “We can stop anytime you like.”

“No,” I rasp. “Please … ”

_ Please don’t stop. _

I cannot think of one good reason why I am doing this. It had been a spur of the moment decision. He had pressed his lips to my forehead, good and chaste -- and I had wondered if he wanted more. If he wanted what I wanted. My curiosity had gotten the better of me, piloting my actions, and in that moment, I had wanted nothing more than to have that question answered. Then he had kissed me with a fire that had not originated from rage. Then the demon had kissed me with an emotion that had not originated from a place of hate, as if he wanted to be sure. Then he kissed me again and again, trying to perfect the act each time, and I had answered. My body was in pain, yes, some part of me doubting that he even desired this to happen -- but the thought of leaving such an inquiry unresolved had seemed even more distressing.

Satan plunges a finger into my depths, and I bite harder into my palm. The ache at my core is unbearable. Nearly excruciating in its intensity. Satan curls his fingers against the entrance of my core as he flicks the underside of my clit, inciting a gasp, and I wring my fingers tighter into his hair. He seems to sense my proximity to my release: he works his fingers deeper, harder, faster. I try to close my legs out of instinct, squirming against the edge of the tub, and Satan firmly holds them open. My eyelids flutter.

It is only when he takes my clit into his mouth and sucks greedily at the sensitive bud that I truly fall apart, my pussy spasming around his fingers. I cry out, no longer able to restrain my voice against my palm. Satan allows me to ride out the orgasm, my form twitching in the aftermath, and his face is nearly obscured in the steam of the bath.

It is an entirely selfish exchange. His fingers brush the unbruised areas of my body when he draws himself upwards, meeting me in the middle, and a firm grasp on my arms prevents me from pleasing him in turn. To avoid injuring myself further, he reasons. He would redo the dressings and bandages afterwards.

He only continues. I breathe his name against his ear as the storm rages outside, the lights flickering with each strike of lightning. I fall apart in his hands as rain beats incessantly against the window, drowning out the sound of the act. Satan had been so worried about destroying me, about shattering me -- and yet he does all he can to do so. Each trace of his fingers against my skin sets me alight, burning me to the core. Scorching me until there is nothing left.

I gladly let him do so.

And so when he finally rocks into me, his hips grinding into mine, there is no more pain. I wrap my arms around him. My wet curls bounce with each thrust, my hands digging only slightly into his shoulder blades. Satan drinks my sighs into his own mouth, quieting me. I find myself brushing away the darkened blond locks of hair at his forehead, as if my subconscious were seeking some semblance of the typically masked, wrathful demon. But there are none: Satan’s skin is fully flushed, his face contorted in an almost painful lust. He releases soft groans of pleasure against my skin, his hands gently but firmly undulating my body for me. My fingers rise to trace the angles of his cheekbones, running over the sharp features of his visage.

Again there is that shred of doubt. I watch him through half-lidded eyes, the headiness of the act beginning to cloud my thoughts.

_ Am I being selfish? _ I want to ask.  _ Am I being a burden? Is this really you? _

But then Satan takes my hands in his, enveloping my smaller ones in his warm grasp. I am kissed over and over and over again until the questions are nothing but a memory.

* * *

The rain has lessened to a light drizzle. Satan sleeps peacefully beside my freshly bandaged and treated body. I can just barely see the steady rise and fall of his chest in the dark, his breaths a quiet murmur in the silence. The sheets are slightly dampened from our bodies, both of us just having exited the bath, but they work well enough. For the first time, I notice that Satan’s body emits an almost unnatural heat from his skin, as if there are embers trapped within his body. His arm falls against me when he tosses my way, his bare skin resting against mine once more. My body gratefully accepts the warmth.

Questions and worries plague my mind, barring me from sleep. Wouldn’t Lord Diavolo punish him for tearing apart another demon? What would the repercussions be on me? Would my ability to move around the Devildom be restricted? Would the exchange program be terminated over the actions of one demon? How long would it be until the incubus pulled himself together again? How long did he suffer?

I lie awake for hours.


	7. Chapter 7

Simeon makes only a half-hearted attempt to stop Luke from fussing over the bandages on my face and neck, his amusement clear in his expression. It only seems to spur Luke on in his quest to take a closer look at the hidden wounds on my face, his worry growing exponentially. I can’t help but laugh. Despite Simeon’s calming words, the diminutive angel only continues to bark out his concerns in front of the RAD library. I sit on top of a low-lying stone wall, holding my new school bag and textbooks to my chest.

“Who did this to you?” Luke demands, clenching his fists in righteous fury. “If it was one of those demons, I’ll make sure to tell --”

“Now, now, there isn’t any need for that. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” But Simeon’s words of reassurance seem to bounce off Luke, drowned out by the smaller angel’s proclamations against demons. He places both of his hands on Luke’s shoulders to stop him from wrenching me closer, looking to me for confirmation. Curiosity dances behind his eyes. “Right, Maria?”

I smile sheepishly. “I just tripped and fell down some stairs. It’s pretty hard to see in the Devildom when it’s so dark.”

Luke sputters. “But -- but you --”

“You’re all lively today,” says a voice from behind me. I look over my shoulder, my heart suddenly fluttering. “I didn’t realize the library was a place to socialize.”

“You!” Luke addresses Satan, pointing to me. He wriggles under Simeon’s firm grip, attempting to escape. “Look at her! How can you be so casual? Did one of you demons do this to her?”

“Of course not,” Satan says, sighing. “We’ve even had Diavolo send one of his best doctors to look at her. Most of her injuries are external, so she’ll be fully recovered in about two to three weeks.”

Simeon nods in acknowledgment. “The Devildom is dangerous for humans,” he concedes, looking over my injuries. “It probably isn’t made for people without wings, either.”

“Or legs, apparently,” Luke protests. “You should have kept a closer watch on her!”

“We’ll be covering grammar a little more in the next session,” says Satan. He completely ignores Luke’s barrage of protests and accusations, most of which have now been muffled by one of Simeon’s hands. “Make sure to bring the lecture notes I printed out for you. I’ve also ordered another workbook to use once we’re done with this section.”

I nod. “I won’t be late this time.”

Simeon watches Satan with curiosity as he leaves, then turns to me. “I didn’t realize Satan was so generous,” he observes. “So that’s how.”

“How what?”

“Your accent has improved by leaps and bounds over the past few weeks,” he says, finally releasing Luke from his prison. “I imagined you had a tutor of some kind, but I didn’t expect it to be Satan. He is your tutor, right?”

I watch the back of Satan’s uniform as he slips into the library, mulling over the question. The flashes of last Friday’s events are still fresh in my mind, the aftermath and the morning after forever burned into my memory. Diavolo had ruled it as a simple accident to his fellow high-ranked demons, despite evidence to the contrary. Despite the incubus’ claims that it was Satan who had attacked him first, not the other way around. But given the circumstances and the future of the Devildom in his hands, it was only expected.

“You could say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please like, comment, or subscribe if you like Obey Me! erotica!


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